3 Melbourne

3

MELBOURNE

PHAEDRA

“Here—it’s yours now,” Natalia says, shoving a piece of clothing at me when I open the door of my suite. “It’ll look amazing on you, but my boobs are too big.”

I shut the door and follow her in. “Poor baby. What other problems do you have? You eat pastries all day but can’t seem to gain an ounce? You have orgasms too easily?”

“Haha. Seriously though—try it on. I bought it at L’Habilleur when I was in Paris, and c’est très chic, but I feel self-conscious wearing it.”

“Cry me a river.” I hold it up for inspection. The fabric is heavenly. Soft and clinging, with a deep crisscross front. “I can’t wear this tonight. It’s white.”

Natalia sits on the bed and adjusts the strap on one heel. “Why not? Planning to get sloshed and dribble all over it?”

“F1 Dracula told me to wear white. I’m not letting him think I wore this on his order.” I fling the closet wide and peruse my options. “I’m the one who tells him what to do.”

“I doubt he’d remember he said it. He’s like a fountain spraying out flirty comments. Try it on! You know I have a great eye.”

I whip off my CAMP SOH-CAH-TOA trigonometry tee and toss it at Nat, who ducks, laughing. She goes to the minibar and gets a tiny bottle of Courvoisier, then takes a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries from the refrigerator.

“Things are fancy up here on the top floors,” she says around a mouthful of fruit. “You know what’s in the fridge in my room? Mini Babybels and bottled water.” She cracks open the cognac and downs half.

I adjust the shirt, staring into the vanity mirror. It’s true I don’t own anything white—mostly because I assumed it’d make my pale, lightly freckled skin look weird. To my shock, white is divine on me. The cut of this shirt is magic: my waist looks tiny and my barely B cups are uncharacteristically alluring.

I turn to Nat and hold my arms out awkwardly. “Eh?”

“It’s sexy as hell. It’d help if you weren’t standing all stiff and pained, like you’re waiting to be sprayed down with delousing agent in a Siberian prison.”

“You know I’m more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts.” I grab the hem of the shirt to remove it.

“Don’t you dare!” Nat barks. “You look fantastic. If you schlump down to the lounge in a baggy nerd-shirt and ripped jeans, I will scream.”

“I don’t wanna play dress up! Especially not around the ‘randy rookie’—as they called that oversexed idiot last year.”

She lifts one expertly groomed eyebrow and pops another strawberry between her red-painted lips. “You can wear the ripped jeans, but with that shirt.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hello—who understands fashion? Moi. The combination of an elegant Paris boutique shirt and jeans that look like you’ve had them since your teens—”

“I have had them since my teens,” I cut in.

“—will be very stylish. It says to the world, I’m refined enough for this gorgeous shirt, yet devil-may-care enough for threadbare jeans. ”

I rotate to look in the mirror again. “Fine. But I’m not putting on makeup.”

“A touch of mascara,” she asserts. “Your green eyes are one of your best features. Ooh, and a dab of lipstick—those bee-stung lips need advertising.”

“I’m not for sale.” I pull my shoulders back and twist forty-five degrees, checking out everything the shirt is doing for my figure. “And if I were,” I add under my breath, “he couldn’t afford me.”

Team Principal Klaus is waiting to get into the elevator as Nat and I step out on the first floor. Near him is a starstruck blonde half his age, staring up at him as if a map leading to the Holy Grail is projected on the side of his head.

Admittedly, Klaus is an almost-silver fox. Forty-five, toweringly tall, rich, obsessive about his workouts. And with that brand of aloofness women find captivating—like he’d be doing you a favor to fuck you.

To the world it seems like arrogance, but I know him well enough to recognize that he refuses to let anyone get close ever since his wife died five years ago. He finds a different girl at every GP and—according to gossip—tells them he can’t exchange contact info due to “security protocol.”

Hilarious. Maybe Klaus’s disposing of women as if they were coffee pods is the last gasp of his midlife crisis, before he gets into model trains or bird-watching. But I’d still put my money on grief.

Klaus gives me what models call a “smize.”

“Good evening, Schatzi,” he says, using the fatherly nickname he’s called me for years. His gaze moves to Natalia. “And?” he prompts, raising his eyebrows at her while the blonde glowers in the background.

“Natalia Evans,” Nat says, offering a frosty smile. “From Auto Racing .”

The blonde clears her throat, holding the elevator door open as it tries to close.

“Have a lovely evening,” Klaus directs at me. “Delightful meeting you,” he tells Nat before stepping into the elevator.

She turns away and steams off toward the bar so quickly I have to trot to catch up.

“Whoa there, speedy. Where’s the fire?” With a smirk, I add, “Oh, I know . The fire was six foot five and standing by the elevator.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Klaus is pretty hot,” I taunt. “I saw you giving him the eye.”

“Who?”

I grin. “Quit with the act. You looked like you either wanted to murder or devour him—I can’t figure out which.” I inspect her face. “Have you guys already met? You’re blushing.”

She stops just shy of the lounge entrance and plants one hand on her hip. “Yes, I’ve met him. Months ago in Abu Dhabi. And he was very rude.”

I give a skeptical squint. “Klaus Franke? Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy? He’s totally Captain Suave—I can’t picture him being rude to you. What happened?”

“He’s just…” She presses her lips together, frowning. “Egotistical.”

“ Psh! Girl, you’ll have to get used to big egos in this sport. As for Klaus, he owns forty percent of Emerald and could afford to buy his own planet if he wanted to, so the guy might have a little attitude, sure.”

“Whatever.” Nat sweeps her dark hair over one shoulder with a careless gesture and proceeds into the lounge. “There’s your ‘randy rookie,’” she says, pointing at Cosmin.

“He’s hardly mine ,” I mutter.

As we walk up, he’s doing the “turning water into whiskey” trick—transferring the different-density liquids between two shot glasses—for a woman who apparently flunked high school physics and thinks he’s a sorcerer.

The woman’s pixieish face is framed by a hairdo that should’ve been left in 2012 along with Mayan doomsday calendars and fingerstache tattoos. Her rapt smile wilts as we walk up. If this is a competition, she knows she can’t beat Natalia, who’s disgustingly beautiful.

“Ladies, welcome,” Cosmin greets us. “This is Abby.” He gestures at 2012 Girl, who gives a grudging wave. Swiveling on the barstool, he nods in Nat’s direction, telling Abby, “This is Miss Evans. And the woman in white”—he seems to emphasize the color, though it could be my imagination—“is the team owner’s daughter, Miss Morgan.”

My jaw clenches with the insult.

Really, dickhead? Not your race engineer—just Mo’s kid? And exactly why are we being introduced as if we don’t have first names, like Depression-era schoolmarms?

Cosmin’s eyes linger briefly on Natalia, who’s poured into a velvet dress so short that if she dropped her purse, she’d have to kick it home. She looks like a million bucks. And contrary to Nat’s assertion that I’m all kinds of edgy in this ensemble, I’m pretty sure I look like a teenager who shoplifted everything from the waist up.

He eyes my shirt, his expression bordering on smug. He remembers, damn him.

“Nat made me wear it,” I blurt in a tone not unlike the Ally Sheedy goth in The Breakfast Club , passing the buck with “Claire did it!” after her makeover.

There’s not enough scotch in this lounge to drown the humiliation.

As his gaze drops to my black Converse, I question the wisdom of having insisted on them. But after Nat screeched “You look like a Wookie!” to bully me into submitting to eyebrow tweezing, the shoes were the hill I was ready to die on.

I give Abby a tight smile and motion to the bartender, ordering a double Glenmorangie on Emerald’s tab. Cosmin’s focus returns to Abby. He places his hands—long-fingered and strong—over the stacked shot glasses, then glides them apart. He’s really working it. Which is absurd, because he doesn’t have to—his angel face alone would get him anything he wants. But he seems to take pure pleasure in Abby’s delight at the “magic” trick.

The bartender brings my drink and I sip it, enjoying the singe on my tongue.

Natalia—seated between Cosmin and me—has her phone out and is studying a message. Her lips compress in her thinking way. She darkens the phone and turns it over, then snatches it back up anxiously and rereads the message, like a kid summoning the courage to peek under the bed for monsters one more time.

I crane my neck in an attempt to spy the short text—which appears to be from an unnamed number—and she stuffs the phone into her purse with a growl.

Beside Cosmin, Abby emits a yelp of surprise, giggling as she slips off her barstool and stumbles. He puts a hand beneath her elbow to steady her, then leans to talk with her quietly.

I take another swallow of scotch and eye Natalia, who’s digging her phone out as it buzzes with a second message.

“Who’s texting?”

“No one,” she insists. “Wrong number.”

Her tone is too innocent. I’ve got her.

“Oho! I knew it.” I make finger guns at her. “It’s a guy, right?”

The screen lights up a third time. I grab it before she does, instigating a near wrestling match as she fights to get it back. I wing the phone away and she jabs my armpit.

“Oooh,” I purr. “So mysterious.”

“Knock it off!” She snatches the phone back. “What’s wrong with you? Are you thirty-two going on thirteen?”

The comment stings just enough. “Why are you being secretive?” I snap.

Her look is lofty. “Apparently you don’t understand the difference between secrecy and privacy . Aren’t you supposed to be some big genius?”

“Wow, Nat.” I gulp more of my scotch, shaking my head. “Very nice.”

It’s familiar ground between us, but still a jarring ride. When she’s in a bad mood, she’ll mock my intellect, and I’ll mock her for being selfish or shallow. Fourteen years of friendship and we’re like an old married couple. Fortunately, I love her more often than I want to throttle her.

We stare each other down, trying to decide whether to go for blood or laugh it off. Behind her, I see Cosmin get up and walk away with Abby.

“Ardelean!” I call out, grateful for the distraction. “Where are you going?”

Oh, shit. Why do I care?

He turns, holding up one finger to indicate he’ll be right back, and I shrug like it doesn’t matter anyway—just curious; nothing to see here.

I sip my drink, watching with conspicuous patience as Nat’s thumbs fly over the keyboard of her phone.

“Phae.” She puts a hand on my knee.

“Oh, shit. What? ”

“Don’t get mad, but I’m gonna bail. Something’s come up.”

“What the hell? No. Not cool. Don’t you dare leave me here with that schmuck.”

She surveys the room. “It would appear the schmuck in question has left. You can go back upstairs and watch TV and order room service like you wanted.”

“I was planning to do that with you ,” I protest.

She stands. “If I don’t see you again before Bahrain in two weeks, we’ll definitely get together there. Hold still…” She pinches my cheeks to bring color into them. “You look so cute—like Emma Stone’s grumpy cousin. Weaponize it! Talk to other humans.” She gives me a side-hug before clicking away on her high heels.

After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to look blithe and confident as I sit alone with a drink, I throw back the last of my scotch and stand. I leave a cash tip for the bartender, then head for the elevators.

As I pass the hotel’s front doors, I happen to look out at the loading area. Cosmin is holding the back door open on a sedan with the Ola rideshare logo. Where the hell is he going?

He ushers Abby inside, then closes the door before passing a wad of cash through the front window to the female driver. He raises one hand at the car in a static wave as it pulls away.

Huh.

Normally I’d applaud someone gallantly arranging for a drunk woman’s cab ride home, but it was more satisfying to think of Ardelean as a shitbag.

As he turns, I take a stumbling step back, nearly falling on my ass.

He breezes through the automatic doors. “Waiting for me?”

“Hardly. I was going to my room.”

He’s wearing a suit that shouldn’t look good on anyone—jewel green with a peach open-necked shirt and no tie—and before I can stop myself, the scotch on my tongue has given him a compliment.

“Nice suit. Did you get it at the Riddler’s yard sale?”

Wait, no. Not a compliment. Remind me never to drink a double on an empty stomach.

He lets the comment go without clapping back, possibly because his phone is ringing. The muffled tone is familiar, and as he pulls it from his pocket, I recognize it’s Bowie’s “Fame.” I struggle to keep my face impassive. Because David Bowie is my favorite musician of all time—I went into full-scale mourning when he died—and this douchebag is not allowed to like him too.

I scowl at the phone, but not for the reason Cosmin clearly thinks.

He thumbs the button to silence it. “I wasn’t going to answer it.”

“Whatevs—it’s fine. As I said, I was leaving. Nat had to go.”

“I know.” He straightens his cuffs. “I saw her get into a car with someone.” Lifting an eyebrow with a mild smile, he heads for the lounge.

Damn him , the bastard knows I’ll follow. I trot to catch up. “Wait, do you have gossip?”

He pulls out a chair on a two-top table and invites me to sit, then seats himself across from me. “I don’t miss details, drag?.”

“Okay, quit being coy. Who was Nat with?”

Playfully following a whorl in the tabletop’s glossy wood with a fingertip, he pauses just long enough to be maddening, then angles a sly smile my way.

Where’s that rolled-up newspaper my dad mentioned? Someone needs a smack.

He wants me to beg, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I fold my arms. Challenge accepted.

Face propped on one hand, he stares back. The sight of his strong fingers framing that chiseled jawline is distractingly pretty. Ugh.

“Your friend left with Klaus.”

My eyebrows jump. “Holy shit. Really? Huh. What did—”

A server interrupts us, bringing a carafe of water. Cosmin requests a few appetizers: nuts, fruit, hummus with bread. Things I routinely eat in the paddock dining room. I’m not sure if it’s creepy or impressive that he’s noticed.

I gnaw at my lip, pondering Cosmin’s disclosure as he orders for us. After the server walks away, I ask, “Did either of them say anything—Nat and Klaus?”

“Not to me. But I overheard an exchange as he helped her into the car. He said, ‘I owe you an apology,’ and she replied, ‘Is that worth more or less than a thousand euros?’”

“What the hell? Weird.”

Cosmin pours water for us, then raises his glass. “To a successful season.”

“Shouldn’t this be champagne?” I tap his glass with mine.

“You’ve had enough already.”

My hand freezes. “Um, excuse you?” As I speak, I listen for tipsiness. Nope—clear as a bell. Mostly. “Based on what ?”

His smile unfurls and snaps into place like a mainsail. “Based on how much you’ve been looking at my lips.”

I pause only a second before walking to the bar and ordering another scotch. I lean on my elbows while I wait, knowing his eyes are on me. This is why I’ve kept this pair of jeans, despite their state of deterioration: they make my ass look incredible.

Let him eat his heart out over what he’ll never have.

I strut back, drink in hand. Appetizers are on the table. I ignore Cosmin and scoop up hummus with pita, enjoying how the flavor combines with the sweet grapes and booze, then tip a handful of Spanish almonds into my face and crunch like a post-hibernation bear.

He puts an olive in his mouth. I’m avoiding them because I know they’re the type with pits, and the thought of spitting the pit out and inciting some crass comment is too much.

I try not to notice the way his lips move as he works the olive around. When he extracts the pit, the motion is so controlled and delicate that it’s honestly annoying. I could never look good doing something so fundamentally unsexy.

I take a sip of my water, then poke bits of almond from a back tooth with my tongue. Definitely not looking cool and sexy. Probably a lot more like a sock puppet.

I inspect the grapes, avoiding his eyes. “So, back to Natalia and Klaus. You didn’t hear anything else?”

“No. But tonight I had an inkling Miss Evans did not wear that dress for me—the way she watched the door after arriving, as if hoping to see someone.” He gingerly sinks his fork into a chunk of melon. “Now we know who, yes?”

Drunk Me is slightly into the way he pronounces “inkling.”

Wot the sheet is wrong with me?

Cosmin takes a grape from my fingers. “I also know you wore that shirt for me.”

The spite-scotch was a disastrous idea. My brain futilely tears through attic steamer trunks full of bitchy-clever replies.

He holds the grape between his teeth for a moment before it disappears into his mouth. At least I think he does. Though it may be a boozy time lag, combined with anger and my inability to stop looking at his lips.

Points, asshole.

If I were braver, I’d take off this stupid white shirt and mic drop it onto the table before sashaying away. But it’d be just my luck if the press got a pic of that: “Emerald F1 Embroiled in Melbourne Stripper-Frolic Scandal.”

I stand and scoop the almonds into one hand and snag a bundle of grapes in the other, exiting without a backward glance.

In the elevator up, I’m gnawing grapes directly off the cluster—every bit the shit-faced Roman emperor—when the random guy who’s riding with me chuckles.

“Need somebody to peel those for you?” he asks.

I examine him, a little bleary-eyed. He’s definitely admiring the cut of this shirt. His shirt’s not bad either, frankly, hugging a torso with weightlifter-y muscles that aren’t really my jam, but look good on him.

For a second, I contemplate being a different person for a few hours and letting him peel my grapes and everything else.

The doors open at his floor. He steps out and offers a hand for me to follow.

With my elbow, I prod the close button. Because I’m not that person, and my life won’t let me forget it.